


The Still of the Night

by beaubete



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, One-sided pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s trying to be quiet, breath stuttered short and shallow, nearly hyperventilating, but all that does is make the other sounds louder: the rustle of the bed sheets, the very faint creak of the old frame as it slides on its pins and shivers with the rhythm of his self-abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Still of the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magicranberries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicranberries/gifts).



> For magicranberries on tumblr, who asked for The Hour smut--this is probably as close to true Freddie/Bel as I can get right now.... 
> 
> Pre-1x01.

The bed shakes.  At first it confuses her, though it doesn’t frighten her; Bel Rowley is not afraid of the same things other women might fear.  But then—Freddie:

He’s trying to be quiet, breath stuttered short and shallow, nearly hyperventilating, but all that does is make the other sounds louder: the rustle of the bed sheets, the very faint creak of the old frame as it slides on its pins and shivers with the rhythm of his self-abuse.  The faint, slick sounds of skin on skin growing damp and enthusiastic.  She could turn, could taunt him for it, for doing it in a bed they’re sharing, but then she might have to acknowledge this thing between them, the heat in his gaze, and the mute, horrified way he stares each time she shatters his heart like glass.  She goes too far sometimes, she knows—the lady doth protest too much—but to say something teasing right now would definitely be going too far, even by her standards.  He’d shrivel and die on the spot; something would break permanently, something that couldn’t be put back together with rubber cement and whisky. 

Listening in might be going too far, too.  It’s a choice, too—a choice to maintain this careful distance, to arm herself with more knowledge of how to hurt him and store it away knowing full well how, when drunk, she has a tendency to rifle through the drawers and cabinets and cupboards of her mind for secrets and spill them.  She can see in her mind’s eye his expression when she blurts out that he’d tossed off with her in the bed—but no, Freddie wasn’t a lover; don’t be ridiculous!—and her stomach turns a full circle, leaving her sick and a little bit dizzy.  But she listens; she can’t do anything else.

And it’s a little bit selfish, too, if she’s honest with herself.  Freddie’s always been a window into that masculine world she finds herself shut out of.  Even her bankers and businessmen have seen fit to add her to parts but not the whole; Freddie has never understood that the “No Girls Allowed” sign unwritten outside the smoking clubs and billiard rooms is meant to apply to Bel, too.  It’s a secret, this thing that men do in private but Freddie has, as always, included her in.  And she wants to know men’s secrets.

And.

And, if she’s honest with herself—

His breath picks up, just the tiniest whine in the back of his throat.  The sound of his hand on himself is louder; he shifts with less care, pushing the sheets away until just the thinnest tendril of cool air sneaks across to Bel’s side of the bed, and she realizes for the first time how overheated she feels.  She can hear him now, desperate breath and muffled sounds as he works himself.  His pace is fast, hungry; the desire to watch his completion hits her hard and sudden, and she clenches her eyes tight and squeezes her thighs together.  She won’t turn over now.  That’s a choice, too.

But she feels herself going liquid-hot in a way that startles her.  It’s never been Freddie, before, who made her want to nuzzle into his throat and purr as he put his hands on her.  It’s never, ever been Freddie to stir this ember between her legs and leave her quivering.  She hopes he doesn’t notice, knows he probably won’t, and rubs her legs together in short, sharp rocking thrusts that make her spark and tremble.  This urge is overwhelming.  She wants to kiss him.  She wants to watch him come.

His cry is nearly silent, deafening in the quiet of the room.  The bed jumps once, twice more as he spasms through his pleasure, the rush of breath behind her audibly relieved.  He squirms—she presumes he’s cleaning himself off with something and hopes it’s not the bedsheets—then settles, still and wary.

“Bel?” he whispers.  “Bel?  You awake?”

Her shoulders tense.  This is a choice, too, and she takes the coward’s way out, pretends to sleep.

He sighs, sinking into the bed.  She can feel the heat of his body behind her, the careful, narrow distance between them as he slides closer, mimicking the curled shape of her legs and cautious not to touch.  He puts his hand on her hip and she nearly jumps; the aching want between her thighs throbs at his touch, but he’s chaste, just resting as if the feel of her nightie beneath his hand is all he could want.  His lips brush the nape of her neck.

“Goodnight, Bel,” he murmurs.  She can hear the sleep in his voice; comfortable, now, he drifts off quickly.  She stares into the dark.


End file.
